Special Containment Procedures: ~~A majority of containment effort is currently being put into finding the broadcasting point of SCP-XXXX and shutting down all broadcasts from it. Secondary containment priority is to be focused on making sure SCP-XXXX and its occupants SCP-XXXX-A do not escape orbit.~~

As of December 7th, all containment procedures have been declared irrelevant by Lunar Site Director Wantanabi.

SCP-XXXX is a Capsule from the SCPF ███████, still in orbit following its destruction in 19871. From the exterior, SCP-XXXX looks badly burned. With clear marks showing where the explosion affected it. However, it remains fully intact and functional despite its battery life being exhausted two decades prior. Inside SCP-XXXX is former Foundation astronaut Charles Bordeaux.

As of December 7th 1987, SCP-XXXX's containment procedures have been revised

SCP-XXXX-A: Holy shit…HOLY SHIT! I GOT THE RECORDER UP AND RUNNING! Fuck yeah, boy do I have a lot of stuff the recovery team will wanna hear. So, my name is Charles Bordeau, and I was a crew member of the SCPF—y'know what, it'll probably be redacted anyways so I'll just leave the name out. Anyways, there was an incident with the pipeage that killed the rest of the crew…I won't go into details. I was in the Capsule at the time so I was jettisoned into orbit. I've been surviving off some C-rations and this godforesaken capsules emergency power. I probably won't last long unless the Foundation gets me out of here. Hmmm, that's weird, <it is that this point that SCP-XXXX-A has taken notice of the Foreign Material warning> the airlock should've kept everything in. No matter, I'm sure

<SCP-XXXX-A can be heard convulsing for three minutes until the recording ends.>

Foreword: Nearly a month after the crash, the auxiliary functions of the ship should've run its course by this recording.

SCP-XXXX-A: Hell yeah! Alright I've got limited time to record this so I'm gonna make this quick. Look at this!
<SCP-XXXX-A strums a banjo in his possession>

SCP-XXXX-A: I thought that I lost this in the explosion, but it was on an overhead compartment this entire time! Umm, anything else? Yeah! I ran out of rations a few days ago…so I've been surviving off of a few frackers each day. If the Foundation doesn't come to get me…No, I doubt they aren't already assembling a rescue team for me. They NEED to know I'm alive. At least they'll remember me by these recordings. Sigh, this is Charles Bordeau, signing off.

SCP-XXXX-A: I—I don't know how much longer I'm gonna last. Ran out of crackers just yesterday. No water either, I'll make it three days if I'm lucky. I'm gonna say my final goodbyes. All of my friends died in the crash, except for Harold Spritzer. Harold, you're probably still at your secret assignment in Colorado so remember me when you finish. The only other person would be Charlene, best older sister in the world…She taught me how to play banjo. Any Foundation members listening, please, please amnesticize her, I don’t want her to suffer.

SCP-XXXX-A: So, I don't know how to explain what's happening, I'm—I'm not hungry, or thirsty. I'm gonna recap, after my last recording was cut off. I went limp, as in I couldn't feel my whole body. I could still speak, I could still breathe and do all that stuff. Then…then my hands started to move on my own. You've gotta believe me, I wasn't the one who started the recording. I'm trapped in my own body.

<SCP-XXXX-A begins plucking strings of his banjo>

SCP-XXXX-A: That wasn't me…

<Radio silence for five minutes>

SCP-XXXX-A: Alrighty, so…whatever you are, I'm gonna take it you don't understand Morse code. It's something all Foundation astronauts are taught, it'll be easy as pie and now we'll be able to talk to each other.

<extraneous dialogue removed forThreehours andTwenty SevenMinutes>

SCP-XXXX-A: And that’s Morse code! Now…since you’re in control of my, er—moving capabilities. I’m gonna teach you how to play the banjo.”

<Recording ends an hour later, final hour consists of SCP-XXXX-A and The Entity learning banjo>

Addendum 2: Therer are only three broadcasts the Foundation was able to intercept and record, there are a total of 22 confirmed broadcasts throughout the span of September 3rd to December 15th 19872

SCP-XXXX-A has now started broadcasting to radio stations worldwide through anomalous means. Foundation Scientists hypothesize that the “Entity” in supposed of SCP-XXXX-A is responsible
<Broadcast Begins>

Gooood Morning, Afternoon, Evening, Night or whatever! My name is Charles Bordeau and I’m broadcasting to you from the orbit of earth. Mhm, you heard that correctly. Make a wish on a shooting star and I’ll see it whizz past me. Anyhow, I’ve got for you some classic Mel McDaniels for you. So kick off your shoes and throw ‘em on the floor!

<SCP-XXXX-A performs a cover of “Louisiana Saturday Night”, and proceeds to end the Broadcast>

//Is this broadcasting? Wunderbar! If you don’t know me, I’m Charles Bordeau and I’m here with my fiddle extraordinaire who…doesn’t exactly want to be named. You listeners in the Southeast US should watch out because The Devil done went down to Georgia.

<SCP-XXXX-A performs a cover of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”, Broadcast ends thereafter>

//If you’re hearing this…you’re listening in on my final broadcast. Personnel of Lunar Site 32…Charlene. My name is Charles Bordeau, and 6 months ago I was brought back from death by some spacefaring entity. As unbelievable as that may sound, it’s true. When this entity revived me, I lost my ability to move actually, but that hasn’t affected me that much. Me and this entity speak with Morse code. Throughout our broadcasts, I have discovered that this entity arrived with malicious intent. Sent from afar to destroy humanity. However, it got damaged along the way, and needed to heal. Of course, it found refuge in me. Reviving me and using my body to get full energy. From the time I’ve spent with this space thingy, conquering the world is the least of its concerns. We’re leaving orbit with the last of our reserves. Charlene Bordeau, I couldn’t have done this without you, thank you big sis.

<Following this broadcast, Charlene Bordeau, stationed at Lunar Site 32. Was questioned for two hours before being promptly released.>

Two men sat inside a train; one sipping a hot chocolate while the other was figuratively freezing to death in his heavy jacket.

“Jesus Christ, Harold, couldn’t you have chosen Oregon instead? I mean, weather’s the same, but the views are breathtaking compared to this.”

Complained George, the shivering man, as he pointed to the rows of vacant beach houses that were blocking out the empty beach.

"I'd love to talk to you about Maine's coastline, or a lack thereof, but this is the closest to the Chicago Spirit that we have been in months."

Harold peeked his head out of the train, looking into the next car.

“Are they doing the ritualistic stuff we saw in the reports?”

George scratched his beard out of unease.

"Yeah, must explain how they got all that alcohol into the states."

Harold responded after bringing his head back into the rail car. The car he had been spying on was empty — save for two shady looking individuals. They were on the floor, rearranging random objects in a not so random arrangement. Harold opened the door of the railcar he was in and nudged towards the car up ahead. Surreptitiously, Harold crept into the lounge car ahead of him. Eventually seeking refuge behind a bar.

He poked his head up, getting a close look at the two all the while overhearing their conversation.

"You almost finished Bob? Chappell's gonna have our ass if we have a run in with the feds."

The name rung a bell in Harolds’ head. During the summer of ‘27 Chappell escaped a prison convoy twenty miles out of Frisco. His security escort found dead at a river band nearby. Harold stood up from his hiding spot, armed with a bottle of whiskey. He slid over the bar, charging in the direction of the two Spirit thugs. They charged at Harold. By a twist of fate, the portal opened. The opportunity gave Harold the upper hand. Effectively gracing past the thugs right into the dimensional gateway.

Three Portlands

The vortex emerged in the streets, a peculiar occurrence to the automobiles. Making them swerve out of the way. It was enough of a disturbance to have your car drive quite literally to the inside of a train. Even worse was when a bewildered Harold fumbled out of the portal.

He stumbled up and began running onto the sidewalk. The UIU agent stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowd of passers-by. His disoriented face asking the question "What do I do now?" Harold never got the answer though, he had more busy things to do. Such as running away from the two other Chicago Spirit members who emerged.

Inconspicuously whistling, Harold ducked into the nearest bar he could find. It was called "Mimsi's" according to the vertical sign hanging outside. What awaited him inside was a few old men hiding behind their newspapers. All the while, billiards in the back were used by competitive pool-goers with a few spectators. The bar was the liveliest, with only three stools vacant and the bartender sweating frantically pouring drinks.

Harold stared at the scene before him, glancing at the three different environments blended together in one pub. No one seemed to care about what he was doing standing around awkwardly. Up until someone tapped his shoulder.

He turned around to see a petite woman smiling at him, "Uh, you know could seat yourself, right?"

Harold stammered, looking for words. "Sorry about that, actually, I was wondering how one would…get out? Like back to Portland."

"Ah! I get what you mean, hold on lemme write directions."

The woman reached into her apron. Harold looked into her apron moments tackled her to the floor. A gun slid out and to the other side of the pub. He struggled to get back up. Flailing his outstretched arms in an attempt to get to the gun first.

"Nuh-uh! You stay right there!" He yelled while cocking the pistol and aiming it at the people in the bar.

The whole room was fixed on him now, not a single scream from those at the end of his pistol. The clack of pool balls stopped. The barflys put their drinks on the coasters. Even the old men so engrossed in their newspapers set them down. The pissed off UIU agent wouldn't get an answer. The dead silence was broken by a thud to the back of Harolds head.

Chicago Spirit Jail, One Hour Later

Harold woke abruptly. In a fit of sudden panic he slammed on the bars of the cell. The neglect of the prisoners from the Chicago Spirit was evident after observing skeletons strewn about the damp basement.

Yeah, I'm not gonna end up like him…

Harold reassured himself with that comforting thought. He'd probably have to cling to it for a while. The thought of being in a dark cellar for the rest of his days seemed unlikely to Harold. All this neglect could mean that someone was bound to get out eventually.

That was exactly what happened. While Harold was pondering on ways to escape, a riot occurred on top of wherever he was locked in. He knew it when the sunlight streamed into the basement. Revealing even more skeletons than he expected. Two men walked in and began checking all the cells.

"Only skeletons in here Frederick, think we should keep on going?"

"Dunno, nothing but old bones in here-"

The two were interrupted by clattering at the back. The two sprinted in the direction of the clattering.

"I'm not going anywhere, as you can see." Harold snickered to himself at the joke.

The two reached his cell. Furiously, they began hacking at the padlock keeping the rusted cell sturdy. The cell came apart one pole at a time. All three of them dodged the tumbling bars before walking out.

"You couldn't have chosen a later day to be locked up buddy, ain't that right Phil?" Frederick's thick German accent was beginning to show.

"Damn right, this is the second Chicago Spirit compound we've raided this week. Fuckers are crawling all over Three Ports." The contrasting posh British accent of Phillip was strange considering the sour relations between the two countries. Three Portlands is definitely from another world.

Harold was ushered by the two with great haste. They were approaching the epicenter of the battle when he was pushed to the ground in order to avoid being shot. Harold crawled behind the nearest cover, a dumpster. Phillip and Frederick followed suit shortly after.

"Alright, listen, I assume you're an enemy of the Spirit. I need you to take this back and give it to the Foundation or something-"

An entire clips worth was unloaded at the dumpster. All of them being reflected by the dumpster or whizzing past them. Phillip was being even more concise after ripping off the necklace around his neck.

"IN THIS CAPSULE IS INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO OPEN PORTALS! TAKE IT AND GET OUTTA HERE!"

Harold stuffed put the capsule around his neck while he looked around for viable escapes. Bingo! An empty automobile on the far end of the fence. Harold tapped Fredericks shoulder.

"I'm gonna need to ask for one more thing before I leave."

Deafening gunshots rang out left and right of Harold while he fumbled through the open grass while Frederick and Phil laid down suppressive fire. A chain link fence surrounded the facility, keeping intruders out. Ironically, it was also Harolds escape. The fence seemed easy enough to scale.

By the time Harold hopped the fence. He was well out of stamina, despite this he still carried on until he panted into the car. A wave of relief filled his lungs while the car beamed to life at the turn of a key.

There was one issue however, Harold never learned to drive. He stomped on the gas, a terrible mistake on his behalf. He swerved the wheel left and right in an attempt to get as far as possible. He thought it best to ride out as far as possible from the battle at the compound.

Harold coughed and wheezed after rolling out of the car. The coat of his suit being used to put out the smoldering fire. Sadly, the car would soon be engulfed in fire alongside the tree it crashed into.

Not bad, you got at least two miles away.

Harold put his hands on his hips. Dropping his ashen coat to the ground, he walked away from the scene. He knew this was a decision he would later regret. However, the dense city provided enough cover to slip away during a ritual.

The crowded streets of the Three Portlands were chock full of civilians alongside Chicago Spirit thugs patrolling the streets. The news of Harolds escape in the middle of the battle wasn't made known yet. Harold managed to make it a mile into the city until he deemed it too unsafe to walk in the streets.

In a dark alley, Harold squatted next to a fire escape and heaps of garbage. Harold opened up the capsule and read the guide with scrupulous attentiveness.

"Here goes nothing…"

Ten Minutes Later

The blinding light was visible once more. The portal was open, all Harold needed to do was go inside. Wasn't that easy though, not when a thug started firing into the alley. Harold was once again blessed by lady luck and avoided the barrage of bullets.

"Not today sonny!"

Harold stood up from his cover and fired blindly until he heard his revolver click. The firearm was discarded while Harold tackled the thug. The gang member was still reloading the Thompson Gun he unloaded in the direction of Harold. Unfortunately for the Spirit member he wouldn't be able to finish. Harold socked him in the face before anything could be done.

While Harold relished in self victory. Three other gangsters were preparing to run down the alley. Harold made a full 180 and dove head first into the portal. The portal shut before a single bullet was fired.

Portland

Harolds portal re-emerged in an open field next to a road. The weather was shoddy; an overcast sky hung overhead while rain poured down on the UIU agent. Easy enough, just follow the main road until you hit town. You can hitchhike to D.C. and march straight into Hoovers office. This might be the big break he was waiting for.

A smile crept along Harolds' face just thinking of it. A sign was in the distance, hopefully Maine. Then again he would settle for Oregon just fine. George was probably making his way to the Pentagon as he spoke. They'd be just fine without each other.

When he finally got close enough to read the sign, the thoughts stirring in his head came to a sudden stop.

Welcome To the Isle and Royal Manor of Portland

"Son of a Bitch."

The Isle of Portland could be described as desolate at this time of night. Save for the Castle of Portland, the cozy, grey brick Castle was home to 27 German POW’s and Seven Guards.

The cells consisted of close knit blocks, with one bed, sink, and a barred window with which a full moons light streamed through. On the edge of the cell block sat Harold Spritzer beside a fire. Newspaper in hand, his job tonight was to poke the fire in order to keep the room warm.

“Listen ‘ere chaps, it’s the daily news. Air Raid on London! Buckingham Palace is in a frenzy at the first sight of German bombers whom dropped a large cluster of bombs over Hyde Park earlier this morning. Hmmmmm…Germans launched an attack on Jasin in East Africa. What else…what else…ah! Nothing much going on in the trenches. Must be glad youre toasty in here instead of shiverin’ in the trenches? Sleep on that, lights out."

The fire flickered out and Harold prepared to doze off on his BarcaLounger. Unfortunately, an occultist among the POW's had other plans. Frederick Von Hastings was well versed in the German Occult. He was not keen on staying locked up in this world soon to descend into chaos. Thus a bright blue light and a loud noise ripped through the cell block.

Harold’s eyes peeked open, he grabbed the ring of keys while frantically sprinting towards the cell. The British guard haphazardly unlocked the cell door. It was an otherworldly sight that boggled Harold’s mind. The occultist had arranged seemingly random objects to summon the portal.

Byron Wantanabe adjusted his rimmed glasses while grabbing a doughnut from the breakfast table. Rubbing his eyes, the scientist observed the meeting room. It was exquisite for an on-site meeting room. A mural of the SCP logo surrounded the room accompanied by well known safe scips. Surprising, considering how dehumanizing the Foundation was. The only lighting in the room was a light orange emitted from the perimeter that stretched around the ceiling. The room had a cool feel to it. That was Bobby's weakness. Dozing off moments after plopping into a seat.

"This Meeting Room 223?"

A buff Caucasian with a Cajun Louisianan accent glanced at the Asian Scientist dozing off, half a doughnut in hand. He took this as confirmation while acquainting himself with the room. Hesitantly, the bulky man named Harold shook the Scientist awake to a slight startle.

"Easy now, Byron, it's just me, Harold, I used to work in Sigma-3. 'member?"

"Spritzer? Yeah, did they send you here too?"

Byron was still munching on his glazed doughnut during the conversation with Harold. While the two were conquering the box. A man dressed in a well trimmed three piece suit stepped into the room. The sight he saw was an odd one. The two were in a heated debate on how they would split the donuts.

"'Scuse me? Hope I'm not interrupting but is this the right place? Says I was assigned to 223?"

Harold spoke up, "This 'ere is Meeting Room 223, and you're in the right place."

Byron interjected, "What are you s'posed to be? You the ringleader or something?"

"In a sorts, yes. My name is Kristoffer Bård, I've been Command on a lot of missions. Think of me as the guy in the chair."

The two nodded in understanding. Kristoffer took off his satchel and handed it to the two.

"In here is everything you need for the mission. Take a look when you have the chance. I'm gonna go set up shop."

Harold sipped on his English Breakfast tea, letting its bittersweet contents jolt him awake. Next to him, Byron was holding a suitcase with both of their clothes and belongings. He spoke up in an attempt to start small talk.

"Wanna know why people call me Byrd?"

Harold finished sipping his tea before responding.

"No, not really."

Byron frowned at the response. "Are you sure? It's a long story and we have a long car ride to Venice."

The elevator dinged open on the ground level of Site-77's parking garage. They stepped out and started walking towards an Olive Green Jeep that belonged to Harold. Byron took the suitcase and plopped it into the back. They drove away

Venice International Airport could be easily described in one word. Chaos. Tourists were swarming all around them in their summer garb. While the bright summer sky shined the through the glass walls of the terminals. Harold reached into the satchel and pulled out the two tickets.

"Says we're in Terminal Seven, airport security is gonna be a damned nightmare."

"Tell me about it…Do we get to bypass it because we're a part of a Fascist Shadow Organization forced to protect the world from threats they'll never know about."

"Unless you want the O5's to give us 682 duty you would."

The two burst into laughter momentarily, before collecting their thoughts and proceeding.

Byron and Harold sat in for the long haul which was their flight. It was an airbus, with two seats on each end, and five in the middle. Much to their misfortune, they were stuck in the middle. Sandwiched in between a mother and a pair obnoxious twins. It was two minutes after takeoff when Bobby inquired once again to Harold.

A member of MTF-Alpha 4 identifying a dead spot on national television

Item #: SCP-XXXX

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: MTF-Alpha-4 (Pony Express) is to have a large presence in the Tennis Industry. Agents are supposed to be present at all Tennis Stadium games with an audience of 5,000 or more.3 Ten(10) MTF-Alpha-4 Members should be stationed at a game, with half of them on the tennis court. The other half will be dispersed throughout these various locations. Two plainclothes agents on opposite sides of the crowd, two in the broadcasting area of the stadium disguised as a reporter, and one situated in [DATA EXPUNGED].

Should an SCP-XXXX-A event occur, half of MTF-Alpha-4 will take priority ending the SCP-XXXX-A event. The other half will deal with damage control. First locking down the Stadium, then activating [DATA EXPUNGED], which will block all cellphone signals. Foundation A.I. Valhalla will assume control of all channels broadcasting the event, and deploy a Class A audio visual amnestic.

Upon ending the SCP-XXXX-A event, priority will be containing a spread of the events knowledge. The two plainsclothes agents are to activate Aerosol Amnestic canisters to affect all persons in the stadium. The disguised news reporters are to do the same, with additionally using a localized EMP to sabotage all broadcasts.

If the cover up is successful, Foundation personell embedded in news organizations will spread the report of a bomb threat to the stadium. Should a Broken Masquerade scenario be declared imminent, Emergency Procedure Bravo-Mike is to be decoded and implemented immediately.

As of the 2nd SCP-XXXX-1 event on 12/15/20██, the Tennis Industry is to be shut down as soon as possible, this is a Priority Red issue prioritized by O5-9, and O5-2.

[[collapsible show="+ The Insurgent of the Insurgency" hide="- The Insurgent of the Insurgency"]]
Remember to credit Buckyboy17, Moklin, Liv3r, RyuthedragonKM, recursive, Cyantreuse, and Darkstuff, MaliceAF

The stark black sky chock full of stars illuminated the Sahara desert. The sands of the desert were whipped up by a desert Humvee. Frederick Wolff was one of them, a long sip from his thermos of coffee jolted the German into action. He doubted the action, asking himself why he was drinking coffee in the desert. However, now wasn’t the time for doubting, Frederick and the others were selected for this mission because of their absolute loyalty to the Chaos Insurgency. The Deltas, or the O5 equivalant of the CI needed to tie up a loose end, and they needed to tie the knot fast. A simple mission they said, Frederick the small band of silent and non talkative "friends" (and by friends he meant a group of asocial sadistic assholes who scorned Frederick for everything) were taking pleasure out of this experience unlike Frederick.

Wake up. Eat piss poor MRE's. Drive. Kill. Repeat. Each night the group would ride to a perimeter of another Al-Qaeda wannabe camp and snipe anyone on patrol duty that night. The group would walk into the camp and find them all in one tent sleeping on the floor like cavemen. Without any hesitation, everyone would slice everyone in the tent to death. Some nights, his sadist coworkers would dangle knives over their victims and play games with them. Those helpless staring imbeciles who captured Doctor Bright were like Alpha class personnel. Expendable, possessing no control, and way out of their depth.

Lo and behold, Frederick and friends’ lone Humvee was a mile away from another camp. The German peeked his head out the turret and pulled out his ravishing new thermal binoculars, given to him by the Deltas as a little "parting gift". He canvassed the area and spotted some lucky fellows out on patrol. Five in total, three of them sitting in a guard tower smoking cigarettes & playing cards. The two that were doing circles around the area were scorning the the three in the guard tower

Friggin’ cowards Frederick scowled to the others in solitude. He plopped into the back seat of the Humvee. Intrigued, he observed the flurry of anomalously silenced bullets sink into the ones on guard. They never saw them coming. Frederick climbed out of the back seat, and the hike down the sandy hills in the direction of the camp began.

Hezb Alkalifah Camp, 1:48 am

After a forty-minute walk, the squadron was right outside the tent. Frederick chucked a sonic paralysis grenade5 into the tent. Everyone became trapped in their own bodies. Frederick counted to three silently and then signaled for everyone to entee the tent. Frederick waltzed in first, yelling out “AHA!” No reaction, of course. He laughed and sauntered to the back of his tent. The rest were hard at work tormenting the ones in the tent. Frederick popped a squat in the back corner. Out of boredom, he started fiddling with the frequency knob out of boredom.

Rock Steady started humming through the Walkie Talkie, he got up and began dancing to the music by The Whipers. His coworkers didn’t mind his dancing, they thought he was tormenting the terrorists. Frederick started jiving backwards while his Walkie Talkie emitted music. Then he found it, well he didn’t find it, per se, he fell into it. It was a wide hatch, hidden near the back of the tent obscured from plain view. His squad mates heard his scream and the wet plop that followed when he fell in.

“Oi Frederick? You ok?” One of them yelled

“Well, technically no, I’m sorta covered in mud now, but as a whole I’ve gotta say I’m doing pretty well. Being out here beats huddling down in a bunker. Like have you ever played New Vegas? It’d suck being locked up in a bunker, just…waiting. We’re kinda like Veronica, catch my drift?”

“None of us play video games, thought you knew this already?”

A soft splashing noise was heard, Red-07, one of his squad mates had joined him in the whole. Frederick cursed the man after seeing only his boots graced by the mud. Frederick sighed again and got up, the room was illuminated by a dim, flickering light. Fredrick rambled in his head. “God, this is playing out just like a horror movie.”

"Command this is Fre-03 and Red-07, we found this Foundation dude in one of the Hezb camps. What should we do?" Frederick questioned on his comms.

"This is Command, I mean I don’t really care I guess you’re clear to terminate."

Red-07 raised his weapon, ready to squeeze the trigger at the still-unconscious Foundation member. Frederick raised his arms and yelled.

"Hold on, hold on! Don’t you want to know how some big cheese in a fancy suit ended up here in the middle of the desert? Like seriously, command, are you hearing this?"

"Smart idea, Fre-03. You are clear to interrogate. I mean you can terminate too…I don't really mind, I mean, just make sure he's dead at some point.”

Red-07 obviously looked irritated at Frederick after gaining the favor of command. He complied anyways and prepared to wake up the Foundation member. Kenny turned off his comms and engaged in small talk.

"Sooooooo, looks like we are doing an interrogation eh?"

He nudged Red-07’s shoulder and in response he shrugged him off.

"I call dibs on h-"

Red-07’s sentence was cut off by a loud thud to the back of his head; he would be out cold for hours now. Frederick raised his pistol to the Foundation agent with his hands up. He looked weak and malnourished, obviously starved and beaten during his time in the basement. He was strong enough to wield a weapon however, and Frederick hatched a plan that required it.

"Hey! Fre-03, Red-07, you two holding up well?"

"Guys." Frederick began pretending to sob, "This Foundation guy has me at gunpoint, he says not to come with weapons!"

clunk, clunk, clunk, Frederick snapped up the metal rod and stood in a defensive position. The three descended the ladder only to find themselves at the mercy of a quivering Foundation member and a smug Frederick brandishing a metal rod like a baseball bat.

One man burst into a fit of laughter. "Get a load of this guy, Frederick is trying to defect to the Foundation, last guy that tried to do that…well lets just say he is not having a daily intake of oxygen." He managed to stammer out on the verge of passing out from laughing

"Listen, man, this is just a personal decision of mine, it's not a big deal or anything, it's just that I'm sorta leaving you. I never even asked to be in the CI, I was collateral for gods sake. I hate all of you, your personalities are so stale I get more entertainment looking at the corpses. We couldn't even share one drink before you shot the bartender in the arm just because there was a smudge on your glass. Imagine his medical bills, he probably isn't even insured because he is a… for gods sake, I'm rambling again. Night night!"

The CI members facing the wall turned around and charged at Frederick. He parried the first one and knocked him on the backside of his head. The second agent rushed Frederick to the ground. Armed with the element of surprise, the metal rod slipped out of Fredericks grasp. Frederick dodged his punches until he rolled over to the metal rod. Armed once again, Frederick hit him in the stomach once, rolled on top, and locked him in a chokehold with the help of the rod. After he was unconscious, Frederick stood up to face the third agent. However, he, bided his time and managed to disarm the recovering Foundation member.

"Drop it, I don’t, well I kinda do want to hurt your new buddy." He nudged towards the Foundation member who was being held at gunpoint.

Slow like mollasses, Frederick set the metal rod to the ground and put his hands up.

"That’s what’s I thought, now where were we…" The statement was cut off when the Foundation member bit into the neck of the man holding him at gunpoint. He released a loud howl as he covered his neck instinctively. Frederick, seeing the opportunity put forth before him, picked up the rod and clocked the last CI agent in the head.

Outside of Hezb Camp, 1:52 am EET

"So." The Site Director clapped his hands together and began to speak. “I’m Harold, I’m the Director of Site-77 in Italy, at your service.”

He bowed like one would expect a French aristocrat at a Marseilles ball to do.

“Yeah, I think… Is it Frederick? It’s probably Frederick! Okay, Frederick, you have a fancy name. Probably German, but how’d you end up here of all places, and with the CI on top of that!”

“Do you want the short version or the long version.” Frederick told Harold, slightly irritated at the rambling of the Site Director.

“Oh gee, I’d like the long version, we have the time.” Like a tour guide, he showed the sprawling desert laid out before him.

“Well too bad, I’m a very secretive person.” He let out a chuckle before turning serious again.

“Alrighty then.” He pulled out a notepad scribbled down with pages of words, a laundry list of questions he would have if Harold was lucky enough to climb out of that hole.

“How was the weather recently? How is the new Foundation TV Show going? Any good movies recently? What’s your favorite book?” Frederick answered every single one, each with a more progressively exasperated sigh.

“Hmmm, well you could say the CI paid me a visit…listen man, you probably have a temporary director or something, and I need you to get him for me right now!”

“No can do! Gonna need your Directors code before I can call in the Director.”

“3, 9, 7, 1, GOT IT? 3, 9, 7, 1! NOW HURRY UP.”

Gerald scribbled it down with a pen, “Alrighty, gotit sir.”

Gerald heard a second voice yelling out, “Oh shit! CI on the horizon, we better go!”

“Hold up, wait! The Director is on his way-“

The transmission cut out abruptly and Gerald sat immobilized before he sprung into action.

“Welp, here goes nothing.” He proclaimed to himself as he felt around under his desk. Amongst all the gum cemented onto the underside, he discovered the big red button emblazoned with “Emergencies Only”. Gerald counted down from three in his head and pushed the button, with a small click, the stand-in Director of Site-77 burst through the door.

"Director, you're gonna wanna hear this."

Site-77 Directors Office, 2:00 am

In the Site Briefing Room, Georgie Decker, an Australian MTF turned Site-77 security stood across from the Site Director. He threw a flurry of photographs and documents onto the table.

"Soak it in, Georgie, what you’re looking at is the whereabouts this site's previous Director who went missing like a month ago. We are sure that a defector from the Chaos Insurgency has assisted him in the escape. They’re on the run right now, got it?"

Goergie picked up a few images and stared at them before throwing them back to the table. He nodded. The Site Director nodded and took a deep breath, signifying it was the most important part of the impromptu meeting.

"They are definitely en route to Cairo, not to divulge any secrets, but all Site Directors are to be informed of local safe houses."

He reached for his pocket and pulled out one plane ticket for Cairo International Airport.

“The next flight leaves in two days, departing from Venice. Grab anything and everything you need, you’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

Cairo, Egypt, August 30th, 6 am

It had been two days since Frederick had rescued Harold that night in the desert, and they had been hightailing it from the CI ever since. Frederick suggested at first that they find a way out of the country, but they ended up scrapping the idea and instead decided to make their way to a safe house. They were almost there now except they were low on gas so the two pulled into a gas station in at the outskirts of Helwan. Harold, using what little Arabic he picked up from his training course to ask for gas to the teller. As Van McCoy's "The Hustle" hummed through their radio, Frederick woke up, seeing the sunrise’s silhouette painting the sky purple.

The clerk at the gas station finished filling up their gas. Frederick fumbled for money, but the clerk shook his head and gave them another canister of fuel. It wasn’t until Frederic was halfway back to the car that he noticed a small note hanging from the can. "CI everywhere," it said.

The Humvee started to enter the highway to Cairo when Harold jerked the brake. Frederick lunged forward in his seatbelt, and shook his head in shock.

"What the hell was that?"

Harold put his right hand under Fredericks chin and turned his head to the road. Frederick and Harold saw about ten humvees surrounding a truck plastered with the CI logo on the side. They were in a hurry, going easily over 70 mph, they were in a rush and were heading in the direction of the very place Frederick and Harold were going to.

“The clerk at the gas station, he is an informant for the Foundation, take a look.” Harold passed the big red canister over the Frederick.

“Wha-what is this? I don’t get it? It’s just a fuel canister-” He cut off his statement once he saw the note taped to it. “When life gets you down, hey, at least you aren’t the most wanted people in Cairo driving into Cairo. Oh wait.” He sarcastically quipped as the Humvee pulled out of the gas station.

Cairo International Airport, Egypt, September 1st, 6 am

Georgie stepped out of the plane into the terminal. After sleeping the whole way there, he was feeling well rested. He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders and began walking, only stopping for a donut at a small kiosk tucked away. As he spoke in Arabic to the clerk he happened to glance at the television. He saw the flag of the Chaos Insurgency rising above the governmental building in Cairo. Georgie looked back into the terminal and found two men dressed in full military uniform with a CI patch on the side. They knew he was here.

“Hold that donut.” Georgie requested in Arabic.

By the time the clerk put the donut back Georgie was already walking down the terminal, adjusting his hat and sunglasses. He pretended to block out the sun as the two passed him, pulling his hat down further over his eyes. He ducked out the nearest exit, head down and hands in pocket walking swiftly onto a shuttle bus en route to another terminal.

Georgie sat on the back of the bus hidden away in a corner, he was well mixed into the crowd of tourists and civilians alike fleeing the city. Georgie felt a buzzing in his pocket, he pulled out his conspicuously outdated flip phone assigned specifically for the mission. He accepted the call and held it up to his ear, before he could even speak, the enthusiastic stand-in Site Director of site 77 spoke to Georgie.

"How ya doing Georgie, good I hope, anyhow I was watching the news and the Chaos Insurgency seem to have taken control of Cairo. I dunno man, anyhow don't get caught and I marked the address of the safehouse on your phone, toodles big fella!"

Georgie couldn't get one word out before the man hung up. He put the phone back into his pocket and looked towards the front of the bus. A moment later, a pickup truck pulled up and stopped the vehicle. Two soldiers entered the bus and began searching it for someone, looking in each seat. By the time they reached the back, they found nobody. What they did find when they exited the bus, however; was a pronounced absence of pickup trucks.

Cairo, August 30th, 11:21 am

Harold and Frederick hopped out of the alley burrowed deep into a Cairo street and stepped out onto a back-road.

"For gods sake, was there no other safe house they could send us to?"

Harold shrugged, "The only other one is in a small CI occupied town, and honestly, anything’s better than that hole. Do you really think I would go into a place occupied by the CI by choice? Especially when they’re all looking for me?"

"Fair point, but where the hell is the address? All the guy at the gas station gave us was a warning we didn't need because we found out twenty seconds later. I mean seriously, you're dragging me into a place where every other person will be looking for me and my birth mark on my lower thigh, and you won’t even give me that?" Frederick patted his thigh to drive the point home.

"No need. We're already here."

Harold held the door open for Frederick and he stepped into a lobby for an apartment complex, the man at the front desk waved hello and smiled.

"Hello sir! Do you have the time."

"Uh, its eleven-oh-"

Frederick was cut off by Harold, "No, but I have a watch."
The man at the desk’s face turned serious at the sound of those words. He recognized the code and reached under his desk for a set of keys. "Follow me, sir."

The two obliged. They rounded a corner and found a room tucked away in the back of the first floor.

"Home sweet home, I suppose," said Harold.

Frederick chuckled, "What was with that whole secret code? I knew the Foundation was clandestine and shit, but this is way over the top."

"Oh please. This is the best place to hide when you're considering the CI are going door to door looking for us. Corny code or not."

Frederick sat down on the bed and began flipping through channels, he stood up and stopped on one that said something about Egypt.

"As for the raids conducted by SAS on Marshall, Carter, and Dark's London Headquarters, we have confirmed that recovered anomalies are in the possession of the Crown. In other news, the paramilitary group "Chaos Insurgency" has led a successful siege and capture of Egypt. The Suez Canal is now swarming with UN troops protecting international shipping lanes, and as for Cairo-"

Frederick flicked off the TV and buried his head in the pillow, muffling his string of curse words. Harold was in a state of shock, not even able to speak. While the two were letting the gravity of the situation sink in, they heard a knock on the door. Harold fell into a state of panic.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck its the CI." He whispered under his breath while opening the nightstand for a pistol. He checked the clip and then cocked it to make sure it was loaded & ready. Harold edged up to the door to look through the peephole.

"Hello, Mr.Spritzer? Mr.Freitag? I am Georgie Musconi, I'm here to get you out of here."
The Australian man speaking sounded legit. Harold spoke up.

"Prove it then."

Georgie shoved a Foundation badge under the mail slot, “Give this to Mr. Spritzer, he can spot a forgery."

Harold glanced at the ID presented before him. "It's legit."

Frederick reluctantly unlocked the door and the Australian sauntered into the room. He crouched under and opened the mini fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and lying down on one of the beds.

"Sooooo, you’re our ticket out of here?" Harold asked

"I reaaaaaally hope so, did you get anyone else?"

Frederick sighed and rested his face on the glass window. "No, YOU ARE our ticket out of here, and you're loafing in a hotel room in the middle of Cairo! I’ve passed at least seven different cells and by god they aren’t shooting at each other because they all want to shoot at US!" Georgie sat up and hushed the angry German’s rant. A knock on the door was starting to increase in volume.

"Harold, Frederick, this is the Foundation, we are here to take you to safety."

Frederick and Harolds face drained of all color, Georgie stood up and inched towards the door, gun ready. The man was still knocking and getting slightly more irritated.

"We are here to help for gods sake, OPEN UP!"

His knocks and pleas were cut off by a door clocking him in the face. Georgie shot him for good measure and ushered them forward.
"You said you wanted out, lets get going!"

The three ran out and sprinted down the hall, they turned to the right and saw a CI soldier leaning against a wall in the hallway. Harold and Georgie sprinted past him, and as the soldier got ready to fix their guns on them Frederick decked him from behind. After Frederick punched him in the face a few more times, he passed out and the three were sprinting once again. Frederick tossed a Walkie Talkie that he had picked up from the CI agent to Harold and he tuned into a Foundation frequency.

"THIS IS HAROLD SPRITZER, WE ARE AT THE TROBAIRITZ MOTEL AND THE CI ARE HERE, LIKE RIGHT HERE!" a door opened and gunshots chipped the walls around himd. “BLOODY CI CUNTS! HEY LISTEN YOU NEED TO GET US THE HELL OUT OF HERE."

The three were on the top floor of the apartment complex, and that was when Harold hashed out the perfect escape. Without warning he fired at the bolts holding the door together. Unwelcomed, Harold darted in and out of the apartment, with a mattress in his arms now. The bunch traversed one more set of stairs, they were on the roof now. Frederick, wielding an Emergency Axe, slid it between the door. Creating a partial barrier, Georgie and Frederick caught on and circled the roof until they spotted the White Pickup Truck. The clanging of the roof exit was building in intensity, pressed for time, the clique haphazardly clenched the mattress and lunged forward onto the pavement.

When they hit the pavement, each of them clutched their stomachs and howled in agony. Georgie was the first to pull himself up, he scooped the other two up from the mattress and set them in the flatbed of the pickup truck. He scurried for the keys and shoved it into the ignition. The trio slipped through the fingers of the CI at the apartments.

1 Mile From Cairo, August 28th, 1:43 pm

Harold and Frederick woke up, wiping the crusty blood from their mouth. Harold peeked into the truck and saw Georgie on the radio with the Foundation, he knocked. Goergie startled and jerked the wheel, thankfully they were off road so the only thing that got hit was even more sand.

“Look who’s awake, sleep well?”

Harold looked and Frederick and then back at Georgie.

“We’re…holding up.” Harold told Georgie.

“Well, that’s good to hear, you might want to climb in, we’ve still got an hour ride until we reach the nearest Foundation outpost.

[[collapsible show="+ Epilogue" hide="- Epilogue"]]

Site-19, Three Days Later

The Jeep carrying the three men rolled into the parking garage of Site-19, they pulled into a parking spot by the corner of the large garage. It was mostly empty, except for a car with tinted windows. The chauffeur of the tinted car stepped out and knocked three times on the car window.

"It's them." He said into his Walkie Talkie.

Harold, Frederick, and Georgie stepped out and found themselves face to face with a man wearing glasses, dressed in a grey suit. He was busy adjusting his tie with one hand and on the phone with someone else.

“Sorry about that, anyhow I’m Alfred Rivizi, I’m the head of the Chaos Insurgency Counter-Intelligence Division. CICID for short, it’s an honor to meet you all.”

He shook all of their hands, “Frederick, you’re new here so you’re gonna be getting level one clearance and a job in the CICID. Your two are free to join him-“ the two nodded vigorously at the offer. “Very well then, you two will be spending a week at Site-19 and taking the basic Counter-Intelligence class.”

FROM: General William Pendergast (Current Head of Project Heimdall)TO: O5-7SUBJECT: Discovery

Good morning Seven, by the time you get this letter you will have already boarded your flight to Lunar Site 32. Now I know what you're thinking, you want to know why you received a direct order to go to the moon. Well, a few days ago it all started at a Foundation airstrip in Navarro, California.

I was there awaiting an outgoing flight to Indianapolis for three days when there was a perimeter breach. The guy surrendered himself almost immediately

Interviewer: Harold Spritzer, Head of Security for the Navarro airstrip.

Foreword: All Personnel stationed in the interrogation except for Harold were given Class A amnestics following the interview as to avoid an information breach.

<Begin Log, 4/24/2017 23:00>

Harold is heard rifling through a manila folder which contains Wantanabe's personal file

Harold: Bobby Wantanabi, 27 years old. Born to Douglass and Abby Wantanabi, both imprisoned for multiple counts of murder, not to mention prominent members of the Children of the Scarlet King. Hmmmm, Bachelors Degree in the history of Occultism, and a UN certificate for the permitted use of Thaumaturgy…You're a smart kid, and you seem to have connections to the anomalous world. So tell me, why are you here?

Wantanabi: Why? Why wouldn't I, you are the safest place I can go when a Cult is hunting you down

Harold: I presume you’re talking about the Children? What would they want to do with you?

Wantanabi: Oh y’know, the usual, burn me at the stake after ripping out my throat because I stole something from them

Harold: Wow, okay, tone it down there. What exactly did you steal? Harold is seen knocking on the plexiglass Bauer, get a few more guys on patrol, tell them to keep an eye out for cult nutjobs.

Wantanabi: I stole…information that's wayyy above your clearance, it's in the satchel you stripped me of

Harold:Wantanabe:

Harold:

Wantanabi:

<End Log, >

Closing Statement:

Footnotes

1. This incident killed five out of the six crew, cost the Foundation billions in damage. It also sparked a large scale coverup on the Foundations part.

2. In the final broadcast, SCP-XXXX-A purposely pinged Foundation personnel on Lunar Site 32. Anomalously hijacking the P.A for five minutes.

3. An SCP-XXXX-A event can only occur at professional Tennis games also being broadcasted. House shows have failed to chase a manifestation of SCP-XXXX-A